


Six Months Off T

by NB_Cecil



Series: Six Months Off T [1]
Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst!, Carlos has autistic traits, Mild Smut, Non binary!Cecil, Nonbinary Character, Other, Trans, Trans Male Character, Trying To Conceive, domestic angst, trans!carlos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-11
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-10-30 16:11:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10880334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NB_Cecil/pseuds/NB_Cecil
Summary: Cecil and Carlos want a baby.





	Six Months Off T

It's been six months since Carlos stopped his weekly testosterone injections. He began his medical transition years before he was offered the fellowship in Night Vale, and the decision to allow some of those frankly life-saving changes T had made to his body to—albeit temporarily—undo themselves wasn't one he and Cecil had taken lightly.

Carlos _really_ wants this. Cecil _really_ wants it too. Not the unwelcome return of what Carlos thinks of as _girl bits where they absolutely are not wanted_ , but the return of other biological functions of bodies traditionally coded as _female_. These functions being reproductive functions.

Carlos and Cecil want a family. They're married; they have an apartment; and while they both agree the _relationship escalator_ model is bollocks, they've _chosen_ this. The want a family. No, they _really_ want a family. They desire this, pine for it, and have decided to strive for it like nothing else. So much so that Carlos is winding his body back to that awful dysphoric time, except this time it's worse in a way because he knows how awful that dysphoria is and he knows how awful it _isn't_ when his body is as it should be... So much so that Cecil throws himself headlong into supporting his husband through something pretty much guaranteed to do a great deal of harm to the scientist's mental health in order to do something beautiful for the both of them. _This story is mainly about_ you _, Carlos, but it's also a story about_ us _._

Because he is a _scientist_ , Carlos is tracking his fertility on complicated graphs and charts at the lab, and taped to the refrigerator door in their apartment. He send Cecil text messages:

_Hey Cece. Menses commenced at 11:46am. I predicted 11:52am. Must re-visit my calculations. I was thinking GLUTEN FREE pizza tonight? XX_

And--

_Cecil, it's me, Carlos. The Sheriff's Secret Police are raiding the lab looking for wheat and wheat by-products, so I've headed home early. Ovulation tomorrow. I'm wearing those shorts you really like ;) ;) ;) <3 XXXX_

Carlos is also recording the subtle and not-so-subtle changes advancing oestrogen and retreating testosterone are making to his body. The slight curve at his hip and thigh where there had been muscular angles before, and the slowing growth of his stubble. He's stopped shaving to try to preserve what there is of his precious facial hair, and while it's still _there_ , the new softer lines of his face make it feel less convincing, less comfortably _his_ somehow.

Cecil is really, truly a supportive husband, but all the love and devotion he has to offer; the loyalty, doting and _obsession_ Cecil has for Carlos, is not enough to prevent Carlos spiralling into dysphoria. It's tough going and Carlos's misery and self-loathing is both confounded _and_ alleviated by Cecil's attentiveness. Despite this, Carlos is determined to battle on. He _will_ be pregnant. He and Cecil _will_ be dads. Together. To their perfectly imperfect, as-human-as-anyone-who-has-one-Night-Vale-native-for-a-parent-can-be child.

Six months of awful dysphoria is a long time, and Carlos has grown increasingly desperate to conceive as has discomfort in his own body increases. He is hyper-aware of his six day fertility window each month, and during that window he comes onto Cecil incessantly. Not that he doesn't fancy Cecil at other times— _of course he does! Cecil is_ neat _after all—_ but the combination of his regular lust for his husband, Cecil's adoration of him, and his desperate need to _be_ pregnant—to have some pay-off for these months of awfulness—drive him to aim for an average of sex twice a day during his fertile window.

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


It's Sunday evening. They had sleepy, lazy sex that morning. They had quick, rough sex on a blanket in the back of Carlos's car after a lunchtime picnic at the foot of the nearby absolutely-not-a-mountain. Cecil had twined his fingers into Carlos's shaggy hair and gently pulled his husband's head back as he came deep inside Carlos. They'd driven home sweaty and grinning like teenagers. But now it's evening and Cecil is, quite frankly, worn out.

“I'm ovulating _today_ ,” Carlos whines.

“I know love,” Cecil presses his lips to his husband's cheek, “But penises don't go on-and-on like that. I'm _tired_ , Carlos.”

“but we only had sex _once_ on Friday,” The pitch of Carlos's voice rises in desperation, “And we need to average twice a day to maximise our chances of conception.”

Cecil adores Carlos's enthusiasm for science—he finds it _deeply erotic—_ and he loves Carlos's need to approach everything in a scientific manner, but the pressure to _perform_ is really getting to him. Privately, he worries about the inevitable drop in libido the lack of testosterone must be causing in Carlos and how this must sure make twice-a-day sex hard for him too. But if Carlos is recording observations about his sex drive, he isn't keeping _that_ chart on the fridge, and Cecil doesn't want to bring it up. Carlos it so desperate for this—and Cecil is too—Cecil finds the thought of this conversation just _too painful_.

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


Carlos loops his arm around Cecil's shoulder and leans against him. Neither have been paying attention to the movie Carlos had put on after the conversation about ovulation lapsed into silence.

“Let's go to bed,” Cecil mutters.

Cecil lies under the duvet listening to the sound of the shower running. _His beautiful, vulnerable, perfectly imperfect Carlos. How can Cecil make this OK?_

Carlos emerges from the bathroom naked, hair dripping, and switches the light off as he climbs in beside his husband. They lie silently, not touching, in the dark for a while, then—

“Cece...?”

Carlos's voice still has that oaky tone, despite the throat surgery, despite the lack of T. _Thank the gods we pray to in our blood stone circles_ , thinks Cecil.

Cecil makes a soft sound of acknowledgement and moves to gather Carlos into his arms. Carlos sighs and presses himself into his husband's side, his still-damp hair tickling Cecil's shoulder. They relax into each other for a while, then Cecil notices gentle grinding against his thigh.

“You sure?” He asks.

“Yeah,” Comes the reply.

Carlos wriggles on top of Cecil and presses his vulva hard into the jutting bone of Cecil's hip. His kiss feels to Cecil like all the longing in the world embodied in something so incredibly _tired_. Cecil gently takes Carlos's nipple between his thumb and forefinger and his own half-hard penis in his other hand. He feels his husband's sharp intake of breath as a draught against his cheek as he increases pressure on the nipple.

“Is this still OK, love?”

“Mm.” A short grunt.

Carlos's face is turned away in the darkness and Cecil can see the silhouette of his curls against the glow of the mysterious overhead lights shining through the thin curtain. Cecil pauses to consider how _really_ OK his husband is, but Carlos makes a grab for Cecil's penis and pushes himself down onto it. He's grinding now, and Cecil takes hold of his hips, moving to match his rhythm.

Carlos makes a tiny, barely audible _squeak_ sound in the back of his throat and Cecil lunges for the light switch. Carlos is staring into the middle-distance and, when Cecil puts a hand to his cheek, he starts.

“Carlos, dear dear Carlos,” Cecil pulls himself up on his elbows, “You weren't really _here—_ in your body, I mean—not _here_.”

“No,' Carlos admits after a pause, “But it's OK,” And he moves to kiss Cecil.

“It's not— ” Cecil is earnest “—It's not OK if _You're_ not OK, t _ruly_ OK. And you're not.”

 Carlos moves away and curls into a foetal position. Cecil touches his back lightly.

“Maybe this isn't the time, right now,” He says, “Maybe not at this time? Or not in this way...?”

Carlos curls tighter in on himself, unresponsive.

Cecil waits until he can't bear the silence any longer—“I know this is hard for you , my love, with all the changes and—“

“It's fine.” Carlos snaps.

“But it's not. _You're_ clearly _not fine_. I know you want this—I want it— _we_ want it, but this price? This misery? _Dysphoria_ , that's what it is, Carlos. Can we afford to keep paying it? Perhaps you should, um, go back on T for a bit?”

“It's. My. Body. Cecil.” Carlos's voice comes quiet. Slow. Deliberate. He pauses, “I'm going to sleep on the sofa.”

He moves to get up, but Cecil puts a hand on his arm.

“No, I'll go.”

Cecil grabs a crumpled skirt and sweatshirt on his way out of the bedroom, and his keys and jacket at the main door. _Carlos needs space_ , he thinks as he locks up.

It's late. Cecil drives to the radio station, fumbles his way through the blood ritual to unlock the door, and walks into the presenter's booth, where the desk is playing the automated re-runs of old weather reports it plays every night. He sits, rests his arms on the edge of the table, puts his head on his arms, and cries himself to sleep.

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


Cecil wakes to the smell of coffee and lifts his head to see an intern standing over him, holding a mug.

”Uh, I made you coffee.” The intern puts the mug down beside the microphone. “I'm going to start the blood stone ritual to call Mr. Burton to come and cover your show.”

Cecil groans and takes a deep glug of coffee. “Why would you call Leonard?”

“You're sick.”

Cecil quirks an eyebrow.

“ _You're sick_.” The intern repeats. “Look at you, Mx. Palmer. You should go home.”

Cecil opens his mouth to protest but the intern cuts him off.

“I'm going to do the ritual. If you're still here when I'm finished, I'll tell Station Management you're unwell and there's already been some seepage under their office door this morning."

“OK, I'm going.” Cecil snaps. He downs the rest of his coffee and shrugs on his jacket, fishing his keys out of his pocket on his way out of the door.

“ _Thanks Maureen_ ,” The intern grumbles at his back. “ _No problem, Mx. Palmer_.”

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


Cecil returns home to find his husband curled up under the duvet, puffy-eyed. He has clearly been crying all night. Cecil sits on the bed but doesn't say anything. He wants Carlos to feel in control of any conversation, or lack of one.

Eventually, Carlos heaves a huge sob. “Cece?” He asks in a tine, tentative voice.

“I'm here,” Cecil puts a hand on the lump in the duvet.

“Cecil, I— I— I... This is hard.”

“I know love,” Cecil replies, “And I messed up last night. I'm sorry. You're right, it's _your_ bod—”

“No, you're right.” Carlos cuts him off, his voice muffled through the duvet. “It's too much. The dysphoria, the pressure to have a very particular type of sex at a very particular time...” Carlos's face emerges and Cecil moves a hand to caress his husband's dark curls. “Cece, sex like that... it makes me feel like...“ He pauses “...like a _girl_.”

“Oh, my dear, sweet Carlos.” Cecil kicks off his shoes and climbs under the duvet to take his precious scientist in his arms.

“I'm going to pick up some hormones from the lab later,” Carlos mumbles into his husband's chest.

“OK, if that's what you think best love.” Cecil tries to keep the wave of relief coursing through his body from showing. He doesn't want Carlos to feel out of control of the situation again.

“It's what you want too.”

“Yes, but it's not really about me, love.”

“No, I guess not.”

They lie in silence for a while. Cecil on his back, staring at the ceiling, Carlos's head cradled in the crook of his arm, his tears running down the side of his face into the scientist's hair.

“Will you come with me to the lab?” Carlos asks.

“Sure. I'll drive.”

Carlos heaves himself out of bed and into the bathroom.

“I'll be in the kitchen if you need me love.” Cecil calls as he heads off to make coffee and illicit toast for the two of them.

Carlos emerges freshly washed, but with his hair uncombed, wearing a creased plaid shirt, cut-off jeans and his third favourite lab coat (the one with the left sleeve partially burned away from the time when, newly arrived in Night Vale, Carlos had tried to investigate a malfunctioning book without the proper safety equipment). He picks at the toast and sips his coffee. _Never mind_ , thinks Cecil, _we have all day to get to the lab_.

“C'mon,” Cecil urges eventually. The toast is long gone and the coffee cup sits accusingly empty on the kitchen table. “Let's get this done.”

Carlos moves slowly toward the door and Cecil feels like it takes forever until they're in the car.

“Carlos, love,” He begins, “I think it's a good thing you're picking up some doses today.” He reaches over to take the scientist's hand. “But do you think you—we—should maybe do another pregnancy test before you re-start?”

Carlos turns away to look out the side window and makes a small sound of assent.

OK,” Cecil says, “We're in this together.”

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


The week of waiting for the pregnancy test to become viable is miserable for them both. Cecil goes to work and the usual Night Vale disasters unfold and resolve. Carlos doesn't visit the lab but stays mainly on the sofa, wearing _two_ lab coats with his bathrobe piled on top, clutching his chalkboard full of favourite numbers and watching re-runs of game shows on daytime TV.

Cecil takes to stopping at the Arby's on the way home from the radio station to pick up sandwiches in the hope of tempting his husband to eat. He's never been much of a cook, and is reluctant to wander the aisles of the Ralph's in search of more adventurous fare when the liquor section is just so tempting.

It would be a sweet relief to blot it all out in one evening of oblivion, but it would be unfair on Carlos, who might have a little life growing inside him and really shouldn't be drinking, if Cecil was to bring alcohol home. He considers a walk to the Dog Park to furtively drink his bottle and throw the empty over the railings for the Hooded Figures to deal with, but he doesn't want to leave Carlos any longer than necessary. Re-awakening Cecil's problem drinking wouldn't help Carlos. In his more sensible moments, Cecil knows it wouldn't help himself much either.

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


The following Sunday Cecil drives them both to Radon Canyon, Carlos nursing an Erlenmeyer flask of fresh urine in his lap.The sun is setting, but thankfully it's a fairly quiet one. They park and walk together to the edge of the canyon. Cecil fumbles the pregnancy test packet open and hands the stick to Carlos. He moves to stand behind the scientist, his arms around Carlos's waist.

“You ready?” Carlos asks.

“Yeah,” He gives his husband a squeeze, “Ten seconds.”

Carlos dips the flimsy cardboard stick into the flask and Cecil begins mentally counting _Mississippi_ s ( _Where is Mississippi anyway?_ ), hoping with all his hope the stick will turn into a writhing poisonous snake, they can throw it safely into the canyon before it bites, and rejoice in the knowledge they will soon be parents.

_Ten Mississippi, eleven Mississippi, twelve..._ The little cardboard stick obstinately remains a cardboard stick. Cecil counts onto twenty, hoping, then—“Carlos, love?”

Carlos silently continues to stare at the stick, Erlenmeyer flask clutched tightly in his hand.

“There are other ways,” Cecil tries to reassure his husband, “Maybe we can give it a break for a while, then...?” He trails off. He tries to guide Carlos away from the edge of the canyon, but the scientist seems frozen. “I know it's been hard for you, love,” Cecil continues, “It's been hard for me too, watching you go through this, but we can get through this. It'll be OK.”

Silence. Then, “I'm. Fine. Cecil.” Slow. Quiet. Deliberate.

“Carlos! I—” Cecil's voice rises in desperation.

Carlos turns and staggers. Cecil puts a strong guiding arm around his waist. He takes the flask from his husband's unresisting fingers and throws the contents into the canyon.

“Let's go home, love.”

“OK, Cece.” And the tears Carlos has been holding back spring out. Cecil helps him to the car where they sit and cry together in silence before driving home.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, I'm sorry this doesn't get resolved fully at the end, but as I said in the tags, I've drafted a ridiculous sequel where everything is fine and I'll post it soon I promise. Also, my headcanon Carlos is definitely autistic but I'm neurotypical and don't feel confident enough in my understanding of what it's like to be autistic to tag this as Autistic!Carlos in case I've fucked it up.


End file.
